CHAPTER XXV
"Millicent Holte – that is the name you must assume," said Mrs. Chalmers to Hyacinth; "and, though I never was so pretty or so sweet as you are, still I was a very happy girl – and I do not like to see a young life blighted. Kiss me, Millicent; you shall be like a daughter to me."
"I do not remember my own mother," observed the girl, simply, laying her fair head on the kindly breast, "and I thank Heaven for sending me to you."
"Before we finish this subject at once and forever," said the doctor, "let me ask you, Millicent, is there anything that I can do for you in connection with your secret? If so, speak to me just as freely as though I were your brother, and command me as you will."
"You can do nothing," she answered, mournfully. "I should not have given up but that I knew all hope was past, nothing can undo what has been done – nothing can remove, nothing lighten its shadow."
"Are you unjustly punished?" he asked.
"Sometimes I think so, but I cannot tell."
"We will not mention the matter again," said the doctor, kindly; "we will think only of the new life and getting well. As a preparatory step to the latter, let me tell you that you must eat all these grapes, and then lie down and sleep again."
For the sweet face had grown so white and worn, so pale and tired – he saw that the effort she had made had been a most painful one.
"We will leave her alone, mother," he said.
But before Mrs. Chalmers quitted the room she unlocked a drawer and took from it a small purse; this she placed in Millicent's hand.
"This is yours, my dear," she said; "it fell from your pocket the evening you came here."
The sight of the little purse almost unnerved her. She remembered how Adrian had laughed at it, and had promised to buy her one with golden clasps. She took it, and then looked wistfully in the lady's face.
"No, my dear," said Mrs. Chalmers, "it is not to be thought of for one moment. What my son and I have done has not been for gain. Keep it, my poor child; you will need it in this new life that lies before you."
Then they left her alone, and the thoughts that mastered her were very sad ones. This new life looked almost terrible now that she was brought face to face with it. She began to wonder what they were doing at home, whether she should hear their names again, whether Adrian was still with them, and what he now thought of her. How he must despise himself for having ever loved her – she who had been the subject of popular comment and gossip – she whose name had been upon every lip! He who admired delicacy and refinement, how he must dislike her! She checked herself.
"I must not think of it," she said, "or I shall go mad."
Meanwhile mother and son had gone down to the cozy dining-room, and stood looking at each other in silence.
"It is a strange story, mother," said Dr. Chalmers; "I cannot understand it. What should you think the poor girl has been doing?"
"I cannot even form an idea," replied Mrs. Chalmers; "she has done nothing wrong – I am quite sure of that."
"Yet it must have been something very grave and serious to drive a girl from her home and her friends – to cause her to give up her name, and to be, as she says, dead to life."
"Something unusually grave, no doubt, but without wrong on her part; I could no more doubt her than I could myself. However unhappy or unfortunate she may be, she is good, true, pure, innocent, and simple as a child."
"Yes, I believe so, but it puzzles me greatly to know what her story can be. Still, we have taken her to ourselves, poor child; so we must make her strong and well and happy."
"Robert," said Mrs. Chalmers, gently – and she looked anxiously at her son's handsome, clever face – "be as kind as you will to her, but, my dear, do not fall in love with her."
"You may depend upon it, mother," he returned – and his face flushed and he laughed uneasily – "that, even if I should do so, I will never say one word about it. I shall think of Millicent, poor child, as of some petted younger sister, and do my best for her." Then the doctor opened a ponderous volume, and his mother knew that all conversation was at an end.
They were not rich, those good Samaritans, although the doctor was making rapid strides in his profession. Theirs had been a hard struggle. The mother had been left a widow when quite young; she had only a small income, the son was desirous of a good education, and then he chose the profession he felt most inclination for. But it had been up-hill work – they had no friends and no influence. They had nothing but his skill and industry to rely upon. Both, however, soon made their way. His practice increased rapidly, and when Hyacinth found refuge with him he had begun to save money, and was altogether in what the people of the world call comfortable circumstances. It was most probably the remembrance of their early struggles that made both mother and son so kind and charitable to the unhappy girl who had fallen under their hands. Perhaps, had they always been prosperous, they might have had harder hearts. As it was, the memory of their past struggles softened them and made them kinder to the whole world.
Mrs. Chalmers, well-born and well-bred herself, was quick to recognize that Hyacinth was a gentlewoman – one who had been accustomed not only to a life of refinement, but of luxury. She was quick also to recognize the pure mind, the innocent, simple, gentle heart.
It was all settled, and Millicent – as Hyacinth Vaughan was now called – became one of the family. Mrs. Chalmers always treated her as though she was her own daughter. The doctor spoiled, indulged, teased, and worshipped her. They did all that was possible for her; still the girl was not happy. She regained her health and strength very slowly, but no color returned to that delicate, lovely face – the beautiful eyes were always shadowed – no one ever saw her smile. As she grew stronger, she busied herself in doing all kinds of little services for Mrs. Chalmers; but this life among the middle class was all new to her. She had never known anything but the sombre magnificence of Queen's Chase and the hotel life at Bergheim. She was lost, and hardly knew what to do. It was new to her to live in small rooms – to be waited on by one servant – to hear and know all that passed in the household – new, strange, and bewildering to her. But she busied herself in attending to Mrs. Chalmers. She did many little services, too, for the doctor; and at last he grew to love the beautiful, sad face and plaintive voice as he had never loved anything before. She grew stronger, but not happier, and they became anxious about her.
"It is so unnatural in a girl of her age," said Mrs. Chalmers; "the trouble must have been a great one, since she cannot forget it. In my opinion, Robert, nothing will rouse her but change of scene and work. She seems to be always in a sorrowful dream."
What Mrs. Chalmers said the young girl often thought. After a time she wearied inexpressibly of the dull routine of her every-day life.
"I am dying," she would say to herself – "dying of inanition. I must begin to work."
One day, when the doctor sat alone in his surgery, she went to him and told him.
"If you will only be kind enough to let me work," she said. "I shall always love this my home; but it seems to me that in body and mind I should be much better if I could work."
"And work you shall," decided the doctor; "leave all to me."
CHAPTER XXVI
Dr. Chalmers was getting on in the world. His practice had at first been confined exclusively to the locality in which he lived; but of late noble ladies had sent for him, and his name was mentioned with great honor in the medical journals. He had been consulted in some very difficult cases, and people said he saved Lady Poldean's life when all the physicians had pronounced her case hopeless. Honors were falling thick and fast upon him.
Lady Dartelle, of Hulme Abbey, was one of those who placed implicit faith in him. Her ladyship was credited with passing through life with one eye firmly fixed on the "main chance." She never neglected an opportunity of saving a guinea; and she was wont to observe that she had much better advice from Dr. Chalmers for five guineas than she could procure from a fashionable physician for twenty. Her youngest daughter, Clara, had been ailing for some time, and Lady Dartelle decided on leaving Hulme Abbey and coming up to town for the benefit of the doctor's advice.
Lady Dartelle was a widow – "left," as she was accustomed to observe, emphatically, "with four dear children." The eldest, the son and heir, Sir Aubrey, was travelling on the Continent; her two daughters, Veronica and Mildred, were accomplished young ladies who had taken every worldly maxim to heart, and never bestowed a thought upon anything save of the most frivolous nature.
They had made their
début
some years before, but it had not been a very successful one. The young ladies were only moderately good looking, and they had not the most amiable of tempers. Perhaps this latter fact might account in some degree for several matrimonial failures. The young ladies had not accompanied Lady Dartelle to town – they objected to be seen there out of season – so that her ladyship had the whole of the mansion to herself.
Dr. Chalmers had one day been sitting for some time by the child, examining her, talking to her and asking her innumerable questions. She was a fair, fragile, pretty child, with great earnest eyes and sensitive lips. The doctor's heart warmed to her; and when Lady Dartelle sent to request his presence in her room, he looked very anxious.
"I want you to tell me the truth, doctor," she said. "The child has never been very well nor very ill. I want to know if you think she is in any danger."
"I cannot tell," he replied. "It seems to me that the child's chances are equal for life or death."
"I may not send her to school, then?" she said; and a shade of annoyance passed over the lady's face.
"Certainly not," was the prompt reply. "She will require the most constant and kindly home-care. She should have a kind and cheerful companion. I should not advise you entirely to forget her education, but it must not be forced."
"That is tantamount to saying that I must have a governess at home – and I do not see my way clear to that at all. Servants are bad enough; but the real plague of life are governesses. I have no idea where to find a suitable one. One's troubles seem to have no end."
To which remark the doctor wisely made no reply. Lady Dartelle looked up at him.
"You must see a great deal of the world, Dr. Chalmers. Can you tell me where I can find a trustworthy governess? I must have a gentlewoman, of course; yet she must not be one likely to thrust herself forward. That I could not endure. What is the matter, doctor?" she asked; for Dr. Chalmers' face had suddenly flushed scarlet, and his eyes intimated something which my Lady Dartelle did not quite understand.
"I was thinking," he replied, "that I do know a young lady who would be all that you require."
"I am very glad," said Lady Dartelle, looking much relieved. "Who is she? What is her name?"
"She is a
protégée
of my mother's – her name is Millicent Holte. She is highly educated, and most sweet-tempered – in fact, I do not think, if all England were searched, that any one so exactly suited for the position could be found. She is of gentle birth, and has a quiet, graceful manner that is very charming. There is only one objection."
"What is that?" asked Lady Dartelle, anxiously.
"She has never been a governess, and might not, perhaps, like the position – I cannot tell."
"She has never taught – of course that would make some difference in the stipend. I do not know that the deficiency need cause concern in respect of anything else. Where is the young lady now?"
"She is staying with my mother," said the doctor, his honest face flushing at the need of concealment.
"That is recommendation sufficient," vouchsafed Lady Dartelle, graciously. "I shall require no other. When will it be convenient for me to see her?"
"I dare say mother could call upon you to-morrow and bring Miss Holte with her."
"That would be very nice. Three o'clock would be a convenient time for me. Suppose Miss Holte should accept the engagement, would she be able, do you think, to return to Hulme Abbey with me at the end of the week?"
"I should imagine so. I do not know of anything to prevent it."
Yet as he spoke, that fair, sweet, sad face seemed to rise before him, and he wondered how he should bear his home when she was there no longer.
Still, he had done what she wanted. She had asked him to find her some work to do, and he had complied with her request. Yet his heart smote him as he thought of her – so fair, so fragile, so sensitive. How would she like to be among strangers? Fortunately he had no conception of the true life of a governess in a fashionable family; if he had had, it would have been the last work of the kind he would have chosen for her in whom he was interested.
"The work will brace her nerves; it will do her good," he said to himself; "and if by chance she does not like it, she need not stay – there will always be a home for her with us."
When he reached home he told her. She appeared neither pleased nor regretful; it seemed to him that the common events of every-day life no longer possessed the least interest for her. She asked no questions about either Lady Dartelle or her place of residence, or how many children she would have to teach. The young girl agreed with him that she would do well to accept the offer.
"Are you pleased?" he asked. "Do you think you will like the duties?"
"I am very thankful to have some work to do," she replied; "and I am deeply grateful to you, Dr. Chalmers."
"You may well be that. I have never made such a sacrifice in my life as that of letting you go, Millicent. I should not have done so but that I think it will be for your good. Your home is still here, and if you do not like Hulme Abbey, I will fetch you away at once."
That night when the unhappy girl was alone in her room, she threw up her arms with a despairing cry. "How many years have I to live? How many years can I bear this, and live? Oh! Adrian, Adrian, if I could only look once upon your face and die! Oh, my love, my love, how am I to live and never see your face again?"
CHAPTER XXVII
"There is one thing we are quite forgetting," said Dr. Chalmers, "although we call ourselves such clever people."
He pointed as he spoke to the little rings of golden hair, soft, fine as silk, light as gold in color, like the small tendrils of a vine in shape. She raised her beautiful, blushing face to his.
"You did it," she said, half-reproachfully. "I look just like a boy. What shall I do?"
The doctor touched one of the soft golden rings with his finger. "This is anything but the conventional governess style; Millicent should have plain, Madonna-like braids of a dull gray tint – should she not, mother?"
"I do not like your plan at all, Robert," said Mrs. Chalmers, looking at her sweet, sad face. "I do not see why Millicent cannot be happy with us, nor why she can not recover her strength here. I suppose you know best. One thing is certain; she cannot leave us thus. Should you like, my dear, to wear hair that was not your own?"
"No, I should not like it at all," she replied, her face flushing.
The doctor laughed aloud.
"You will never make a woman of fashion, Millicent, as far as I understand such beings. A lady with a magnificent head of hair of her own carefully puts it out of sight and covers it with some one else's hair. I think the fashion most hateful, but my opinion of course matters little. Seriously speaking, Millicent, my mother must take you to a hair-dresser's, as something must be done; this beautiful, graceful, infantile head would never suit her ladyship."
Much against Millicent's will a hair-dresser was taken into their confidence.
"Could I not wear a cap?" asked Millicent, looking shyly at the magnificent coiffures of all colors.
"It would be very unbecoming," said the hair-dresser.
"A governess in a cap!" spoke Mrs. Chalmers. "No, that will not do at all."
"What does it matter?" thought the girl. "After all, my appearance will really interest no one."
And she submitted passively while a plain band of hair was chosen for her by the hair-dresser and Mrs. Chalmers. When it had been arranged, and she looked in the glass, she hardly recognized her face, the wavy golden hair had always given such a graceful, fairy-like character to her beauty. She looked many years older than she was – sad and subdued. The plain band of hair seemed quite to alter her face. Mrs. Chalmers kissed her.
"Never mind, my dear," she said; "you will soon be your own pretty self again," and the kindly words smote the young girl with deadliest pain. Her own self? Ah, no! – that self was dead, never to live again. It was but fitting that the old, graceful beauty – the girlish beauty Adrian had loved so dearly – should die with it.
"A very proper person indeed," thought Lady Dartelle, when the interview was nearly at an end; "evidently knows her place and mine; and I may own to myself that the outlay is very little."
For Lady Dartelle had, during the course of the interview, been delighted with the brilliant accomplishments of the young girl. Her playing was magnificent, her singing most exquisite – the pure, sweet contralto voice had been highly cultivated. Then she spoke French and German with such a pure, perfect accent, that Lady Dartelle began to think that the terms expected would be high. She managed the matter skilfully. She carefully concealed her admiration, and dwelt principally on the fact that the young lady had never before been engaged in teaching.
"That makes an immense difference," said her ladyship, diplomatically. "Still, as Miss Holte's appearance pleases me, I will not think of the deficiencies. In addition, Miss Holte, to your teaching my youngest daughter, I should wish you to speak French and Italian with my eldest girls."
Miss Holte bowed acquiescence, and her ladyship, finding that she offered no objection to any amount of work, then mentioned a few other "little duties" she wished to be attended to – "duties" she would not have dared to exact from any one else.
All arrangements were concluded greatly to her satisfaction, and then Lady Dartelle asked Millicent if she would not like to see her new pupil. The young girl said "Yes," and in answer to a summons from her ladyship, the child came into the room.
Then, for the first time, Millicent's heart was touched; the large, earnest eyes looked into her own with an appealing expression, the little burning hand trembled as it lay in her own. Millicent bent down and kissed the sweet face. Something stirred in her heart that had long seemed dead – something that brought with it exquisite pleasure and exquisite pain.
"In cases of this kind," said Lady Dartelle, "I find there is nothing like a clear and straightforward understanding. I should like to tell you, Miss Holte, that when we are quite alone you will sometimes dine with us, and occasionally spend the evening in the drawing-room; but when we have visitors such an arrangement will be impossible. My reasons for saying this," continued her ladyship, blandly, turning to Mrs. Chalmers, "are these. My son Aubrey is a frequent visitor at Hulme Abbey; he often brings friends with him; and then I think precautions with young people are necessary. I have seen sad results among my friends where the precautions I think so necessary have not been taken."
"I shall never wish for any society but that of my little pupil, Lady Dartelle," said Millicent.
And her ladyship was graciously pleased to observe that Miss Holte seemed to be very sensible.
It was all arranged; but as they drove home a sudden doubt came to Hyacinth. Lady Dartelle spoke of her son's bringing visitors with him. Suppose among them there should be any one she knew – any one who would recognize her? The very thought of it made her sick and faint. No, it was not likely; she had seen so few people, she had known so few – besides, when visitors came, it was Lady Dartelle's wish that she should not appear.
"Even if I do appear," she said, "who that has known me in my bright happy days – who that has known me as Hyacinth Vaughan – would recognize me now?"
Who could discover the lovely, smiling, radiant face under that sad, careworn look? Where was the light that had shone in the beautiful eyes – where were the smiles that had played round the perfect lips – where the grace and happiness that had made the face like sunshine? Years seemed to have passed over that bowed head – years of sorrow, of care, of misery. No one could recognize her. She need have no fear.
She blushed crimson when Dr. Chalmers, on seeing her, laughed. She had forgotten the false braids of hair. Nothing had the power to interest her long. Her thoughts always flew to Adrian. What had he thought of her? Had he forgotten her? What was he doing? She had completely forgotten the braids. The doctor's mischievous laugh made her remember them.
"I declare, Millicent," he said, "I should have passed you in the street without recognizing you. Why, you look ten years older, child, and so altered!" His face grew serious and sad as he remembered the girl as he had seen her first.
"Shall you like Lady Dartelle?" he asked.
Severe suffering had not blunted her keen instinct – the instinct that had shown her that Claude was more enthusiastic than sincere, and that Adrian was the most noble of men.
"I shall like my pupil," she said, "I shall love her in time."
"Now," observed the doctor, "I have hopes of you. This is the first time you have used that word. Millicent," he continued, kindly, yet gravely, "to love any thing, even though it be only a child, will be the salvation of you."
It was arranged that Millicent – Hyacinth had even learned to think of herself by that name – should join Lady Dartelle on the Friday evening; and on the following Saturday they were to go down to Hulme Abbey together. Dr. Chalmers had promised to find time to run down in the course of a few months.
"You will naturally be anxious to see how Miss Holte gets on," said her ladyship, adroitly; "and I shall be glad of your advice about Clara."
Then the time for parting came. The separation proved harder than they had thought. Millicent had grown to love the place and the people, as it was characteristic of her grateful, loving nature, to care for all those who were kind to her. It was her only home now; and the friends who dwelt there had been goodness itself. Her sad heart grew heavier as she thought of leaving them.
"Yet, if I live on here as I have been doing," she said to herself, "I shall lose my reason."
When the time came to say farewell, Dr. Chalmers held her hands in his.
"I am not a man of many words," he said, "but I tell you this – the sunshine and joy of my heart go with you. How much I care for you, you will never know; but Heaven's best blessing go with you and prosper you! If you ever want a friend, send for me."
In another minute